Progress, This Great Heresy Of Decay.

Even If It Were Proven That God Didn't Exist, Religion Would Still Be Saintly And Divine.

What I Say Is That The Supreme And Singular Joy Of Making Love Resides In The Certainty Of Doing Evil.

France At The Dinner Table In Faraway Places; But Here, Among Ourselves, In The Family, Let Us Face The Facts: France Is Not Poetic; To Tell The Truth, She Even Feels A Congenital Horror Of Poetry. Among The Writers Who Use Verse, Those Whom She Will Always Prefer Are The Most Prosaic.

It Would Perhaps Be Nice To Be Alternately The Victim And The Executioner.

Today I Had A Strange Warning. I Felt The Wind Of Insanity Brush My Mind.